


Hurdles

by koakuma_tsuri



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Secret Affair, established affair, mean swanny is mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 17:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1557815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koakuma_tsuri/pseuds/koakuma_tsuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alastair and Kevin were fine with the way things were until a fight with Graeme changes things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurdles

**Author's Note:**

> Sunny is a moo who didn't tell me it was her birthday until a couple days afterwards. So, this is for her.

Alastair can’t remember ever seeing Graeme so angry before. It’s exactly what he wants. The man is fuming and vulnerable because of it. If Alastair can work through the rage, the Spinner will start to see sense. He studies every jerky movement, every hiss and bared tooth. He sees how those stormy blue eyes glare at him and he wants so much more. As a Captain, he’s faced similar things. As Kevin’s lover, he’s faced a lot worse. There’s a slight concern for their friendship – in the short-term at least. Even if Graeme leaves now, when he calms he’ll see all that Alastair is trying to do for him and Jimmy.

“You have to realise, Grae,” he says, voice strong yet still diplomatic in tone. The last thing he needs is to spit Jimmy’s problems with the man like accusations. Alastair knows _he_ has to do this, since the Lancastrian would never open up and admit them. And even if he did, they would be more venomous than anything known to natural science. “What you say can be pretty hurtful.”

“Oh, so this is all _my_ fault then?” the man barks, laughing sourly and throwing his hands up in the air. His long fingers flex in an overly-dramatic gesture that is like a cat flexing its claws. “Fucking knew it would be. You’re _always_ on his side.”

“Grae,” Alastair sighs and hangs his head. He holds the pose for a few moments, reinforcing his resolve. Yes, he is closer friends with Jimmy because he’s known him longer and has more in common, and sometimes Swann can be a bit much for the two of them, insular and private. “I care about the both of you.”

Graeme scoffs and stalks across the room to glare out of the window. Those hands clench tightly around the wooden panel of the window sill. He’s so close to snapping… so close.

“You need to talk this out with him, you know? Both realise your right _and_ wrong and talk it out. It’s _healthy_.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Graeme starts to laugh and it takes Alastair by surprise. He frowns as the bitter-tinged thing coats his skin like warmed treacle. Something’s changed. Graeme’s not simply angry anymore.   “And you know _all_ about healthy relationships, don’t you?”

The Captain’s breath hitches and he finds himself fastened to the spot. Graeme’s too quick for him to even retort or slap the remark to the side to focus back on the problem at hand. The bowler rounds on him, grinning maliciously. The balance of power has swung entirely. Alastair’s never felt quite so small. Like the ground beneath his feet had melted, he feels himself shrinking and sinking into a darkness he knows has always been there but he’s been so adamant to ignore.

“You’re having an affair with _another_ fucking _married_ man. Do you _remember_ what happened last time, huh?” Graeme’s sharp features only make him look all the more smug and predatory and Alastair would do _anything_ to find the words to silence him. Because he doesn’t want to think and remember. He’s been so happy as of late, he had started to forget. Forget that pain and the loneliness that took root so deeply inside him that just continued to grow more ferociously the harder he tried to kill it.

“A man who actually _loved_ you just left you. Just fucking _left you_. You think that’s ‘healthy’? You think you _know_ ‘healthy’? You think ‘healthy’ is waiting for him to say ‘great thanks bye’. You’re fucking pathetic, Alastair.”

Alastair stares at the striped grey carpet, his jaw tight to the point it aches and he feels he might crack it tooth. It might be a distraction from the pain and sickness churning furiously in his stomach. Possessed with the shame of doing what he vowed he never would again; the desolation that he’s allowed himself to fall again; the panic and fear that the day Graeme speaks of will come before he’s ready. But Alastair knows that he’ll now never be ready.

His tongue is too heavy to move and he can’t even take in a breath to speak when the lump that’s formed in his throat is threatening to choke him. Perhaps this is all just a facet of Swann’s rage. Perhaps this is the test he has to endure to succeed. Perhaps this is Graeme finally saying all he’s been so wanting, but too conscious of his friend’s delicate emotions, to shout for years.

“Do you _seriously_ think Kevin loves you? Fucking _joke_. You’re just an easy, ego-stroking hole for him to fuck into whenever _he_ wants. Is that ‘love’ to you? Is that your ‘healthy’?” there’s a pause like Alastair is supposed to defend himself or just say _anything_. Nothing comes. How could it? Graeme has no idea what Kevin can be like – what he _is_ like – and will never believe a word of it. Sometimes even Alastair himself can’t. The softness in his eyes and kisses… he can’t pinpoint when it changed but _lust_ is a thing in the distant past now.

“He’s gonna dump you and you’re gonna have _no one_ to pick you up again,” Graeme sounds almost giddy as he says it. No doubt the words have been biting on his tongue for a while.

Alastair tries to steady himself and the whirling maelstrom of his thoughts. Kevin might have never said the words, but there’s _something_ there. He knows there is. Something that feels different from what he had with Freddie. He doesn’t understand it, and never really tried. With Freddie he was young and naïve. He’s experienced now, wiser and more in control. It’s odd and exhilarating, and sometimes so easy to believe that what they have won’t end, or at least end badly.

But Alastair _knows_ that nothing means more to Kevin than his family. He’s known for a long, long time – even _before_ everything happened – that he’ll only find himself heartbroken again. But sometimes it feels worth it, just to fall asleep with warm lips against his temple or waking to murmurs of how beautiful he is.

“And you have the damn fucking guts to lecture me—”

“Are you quite finished?” Alastair manages to gather enough words to speak. His voice has never been so quiet, so fallible when there’s nothing secure in him for it to be based on. The world is still swallowing him up and let it, if he can forget everything.

“Yeah, I’m finished,” Graeme sneers, “You run along, little lamb. Kevin’ll take you to the slaughter.”

\--

Kevin sits on the bed, waiting for the door to open. He wonders if it even will, but he’s certain he wants it to. Common sense dictates that he should be relieved it doesn’t, in a way. Maybe this is the perfect time to say _enough_. A voice has been begging him to do it for far too long. He’s gotten good at silencing and ignoring it.

Kevin’s never been any good at listening to his common sense. It’s always been something of a hindrance. A man who’s always done exactly what he wants, or surrendered to whatever impulse takes him, he’s sure that now Alastair is something that he needs. The Englishman’s filled a gap Kevin never knew he had, and he fears what will happen if he lets him go. Or loses him. If what he once had will not be enough. It’s bad enough spending nights alone now, knowing that the next or at least in the near future, he won’t be. Devoid of the promise of company, Kevin is silently afraid of what might become of him.

A burn settles deep in his gut, making every muscle tingle and twitch, aching to be used.  His feet tap to an unknown beat on the foot, constantly urging him to get up, to walk down that damn corridor again. Alastair needs comfort, yet he remains here. That knowledge makes him sick with a guilt he knows he would have only felt for one other person before. But he can’t just _go_ to the Captain. He doesn’t want Alastair to know he’d overheard everything.

He hadn’t been eavesdropping. He didn’t even _know_ Alastair was with Graeme until he heard their voices as he walked down the corridor. Nothing out of the ordinary. For good friends, they squabble occasionally, but it was when Swann started shouting that Kevin stopped and hovered. Something inside him told him to wait and be ready to go in; to defend Alastair as only he should. Kevin had not expected to be the subject of the argument.

It had stung him. Perhaps even more because never once had Alastair raised his voice in defence or dispute. Like he believed every word Graeme was saying, no matter how sharp and deep they carved into him. Like he knew; he didn’t have to be told and is expecting that day of reckoning to come.

A lack of trust usually offends the South African to the point of vexation, but he’s done nothing to prove otherwise. How could he? They’ve tried so vehemently to avoid and conceal and trick themselves into believing anything but the truth. It’s been there for a while now though and a part of Kevin that just _assumes_ assumed that it doesn’t _need_ to be said. The way he knows he looks at Alastair and the way Alastair looks at him echo those damn words that he’s caged to the back of his throat.

They’re in love and they know it.

He cards his hands through his hair, hanging his head so low it almost touches his lap. Kevin would do almost anything to give Alastair a _healthy relationship_. Just the one thing that holds them back is the one thing he won’t ever give up. And because it’s the same for the two of them, Kevin had _assumed_ it’s something they’d long accepted and moved over.

The best he could give is the promise to never make the mistake Flintoff had and Alastair believed him. Kevin knows he still does. But they both know that whilst the South African actively tries to his word, he has the uncanny habit of subconsciously breaking promises. There’s nothing he can do about it. It’s impulses and reckless reactions but that’s what he is. He can only hope that it’ll be a long time into the future.

Kevin can’t blame Alastair for _expecting_ it. The Captain is intelligent, diligent and has probably long been prepared for that day. At least, he hopes so. He can’t take offence because the man didn’t defend him. There’s no grounds. No grounds but sentiment and Kevin’s always been the first to discredit that.

What they have is far from healthy. An affair, as Graeme had put it and though he’s always thought the word, neither of them have ever said it. The title is like a tarnish; something that soils whatever goodness they’ve developed together. But it’s an affair with no future. Like drug addicts, they gorge themselves on their fixation, knowing that there’s always a great risk but the risk is never great enough to sway their sensibilities.

Grunting, Kevin curls his fingers against his thighs. Fingertips echo the rhythm of his feet. He has to do _something_. Pretty much all of the relationship has been down to Alastair. He was the one that started it, ended it and then gave it the go-ahead again. Kevin’s always been the one chasing. Persuading. Convincing.

He supposes it’s all his fault – where they find themselves now. If only he had listened to Alastair’s warnings and insistence and taken heed to his fears of falling, then there would be no problems. He would be in a stable, happy and faultless marriage with his wife and Alastair would be living the way he had successfully and comfortably before.

The more Kevin thinks it, the more it rebounds and reverberates until he reaches the revelation that he can’t just give up now. This is a hurdle. They’ve passed them before. Bigger ones that just an interfering and possibly jealous best friend. The South African realises that this is another situation in which it’s up to him to make the move. To _chase_ that prize that is so worth having.

As long as he chases, Alastair knows he is wanted; he is _loved_. Kevin nods to himself, resolved and pushes himself to his feet. A once-over in the mirror satisfies him. He’ll never not look like a mess when his mind is skewed, but it’ll be the last thing to cross the Englishman’s thoughts.

They’re in love and if it’s what Alastair truly needs to hear, then Kevin will say it, whisper it and scream it until he believes.

\--

Alastair lies back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling as he bites his nails. His thumb is already bleeding; sore from where taken a chunk nail away and exposed the bed. He just moved onto the next finger subconsciously. Strange how something so painful could be so calming at the same time. But he supposes masochism ventures into all facets of his life.

So this is him then… condemned to forever find himself in recurring moments: doubtful, conflicted and confused. His relationships destructive and his marriage unfulfilling; his career ever-swinging between success and embarrassment quicker than he can try to control. A part of him wants to hate Swann for making him feel like this when everything lately outside of work had been so fantastic, but Alastair knows he had every chance to avoid it.

Graeme had worked so ardently to keep him from Kevin. Tried to convince him with caring words, stern words, threats and threats of violence, to break it off before it got too much. But Alastair had brushed him off because he knew what he was doing. He still remembers Swann and Anderson’s looks of _I told you so_ when he crawled in to confess he’d been caught out.

It’s never felt like a mistake. Being with Kevin has never felt _wrong_. Knowing that it should, and _is_ because of the women and children they have waiting at home, is a feeling that they’ve long since learned to ignore. On tour, it’s the two of them. It’s an escape and a sojourn that somehow refreshes them to go home to their families and in that way, he can justify the affair.

When things go sour – Alastair bites harshly down on his finger, barely wincing when the nerves flare, because he knows they will one day – it’ll be messy and have ramifications that will make The Flintoff Incident look like the fall-out of a three day secondary school romance. Kevin will end up hating him to the point of irrationalism, which would birth questions and demands not only from the ECB, but Jessica. Kevin may have developed a skill for deception, but he’s still no liar. And when in a fit of rage, his tongue is surprisingly loose. It’s a worst-case scenario, of course, but Alastair still sees it possible. They could lose everything.

Yet even now, there is no will in him to get up and go to the man and tell him it’s done. Kevin would hurt but ultimately he’d understand. Alastair imagines it as he usually mentally plays out situations. How the South African would resist… once upon it would’ve been a sexual thing, domineering to keep that darkest part of Alastair fixated and dependant on him, but now he’s really not sure. He’s still learning about Kevin in that way that lovers take a lifetime to completely understand each other.

It’s what holds him back from going to see him. There’s no guarantee that the man would not barge into Graeme’s room and give him hell, which is not entirely fair because it was Alastair who pushed him into saying such things. Kevin could even initiate a break-up himself, finally no longer able to brush things under the carpet and realising the risk is too much now. Or maybe he’d pull Alastair into him, warm and strong, and kiss him sweetly, whispering those words and he thinks he needs to hear.

Alastair scoffs to himself. He’s so horribly afflicted with this _love_ and hating how those delicate thoughts instantly inspire hope and a warmth that he knows he shouldn’t allow. They’re like childhood dreams: ethereal and improbable. Playing for England had been a childhood dream… and one he had made into a reality.

“You’re pathetic, Alastair,” he mumbles to himself, echoing the very tone in which he had heard such words from Swann’s mouth. Lazily rolling onto his side, he reaches across to his phone and clicks on the first song he finds. The phone remains flat on the bedside table, muting and muffling the music, which is just fine. The song is too fast-paced and upbeat for his mood right now anyway to dominate the atmosphere.

Just as he sighs, Kevin knocks on the door. Alastair slumps onto his back and groans as quietly as he can. It’s useless though. The South African has a key and the music is loud enough to be heard, and Alastair is particular in never leaving it playing if he’s not in the room. So even he if he pretends to not be here, Kevin would enter anyway, to check or to turn the music off and maybe even stay with the intent of surprisingly him.

There’s a pause of five seconds and then Alastair hears the click of the lock. He composes himself, feigning a smile and sitting up. “Hey,” he calls when the door opens. As genuinely warm as it is, Alastair still feels like he’s pretending. Yet he can’t understand entirely why. Kevin has done nothing wrong. He’s only doing what is natural, what is _right_. After all, it’s just as much up at Alastair to come out and verbally confess his feelings. Again… but under a better circumstance.

“Hey,” Kevin says as he rounds the corner. He beams all white teeth and affection and makes the Englishman have to bite the inside of his bottom lip. Because it inspires those silly thoughts of it being the first thing he wants to see in the morning, and how that smile always seems to lift his mood.

Perhaps that bitten lip was accompanied by a furrowed brow he couldn’t control, as Kevin’s expression falters for a moment. He doesn’t ask though, both confusing and reliving him. Everything lately had been about Swann and Anderson, and despite the uneasy friendship they had knocked together, Kevin still isn’t desperately interested in their lives. Alastair is sure whatever friendship would be obliterated if Kevin found out what Swann had said. So he promises himself not to say. He’s concealed a lot of things in his life, so what’s one more? It’s just a stupid heat-of-the-moment squabble anyway. Nothing he hasn’t heard before.

“Busy day?”

Humming, Kevin comes to sit on the bed. He leans back on his hands, one so close to Alastair’s that he cannot fight to urge to twine their fingers together. The way Kevin squeezes makes him regret it though. It’s just one more thing that _friends who have great sex together_ just don’t do. “Catching up with stuff.”

“Spoke to Jess?” Alastair mumbles and he’s not sure why. His hand still in Kevin’s, sat on a bed they’ve occupied countless times over the week, it’s not really something they do. But something has to change, at least to give the illusion of more stability. Maybe it’s time for them to stop pretending like they’re single when they’re together. It’s time to truly see this as it is and maybe then Alastair can truly start to prepare himself for what’s coming when it comes.

Kevin hums again, more like a grunt as he turns to face the wall. His shoulders are raised and Alastair can see how his jaw and cheeks move. Kevin is uneasy and the Captain’s first thought is of the discomfort of being the one to make him so.

Just gently, he strokes his thumb across the back of the man’s hand. It’s enough. Kevin turns back around, shuffling so they’re fully facing each other. The smile returns and if Alastair isn’t mistaken with those look in his dark eyes, they will soon find themselves laying down, arms and legs tangled even if their tongues are not. Like a man on a diet, he craves it yet knows it’s ultimately no good.

“Eoin said something about going out tonight… do you want to?”

Alastair thinks, eyes flicking between Kevin’s face and the clock. They haven’t been out together for a while, at least not in some serious or formal capacity. Eoin’s nights out tend to involve loudness and a lot of fun, alcohol and more often than not, toe-curling, wild sex afterwards. And maybe that’s what Kevin is thinking. If they’re both needing some distraction for whatever reason or if because Kevin knows he enjoys it. Alastair knows he’ll enjoy it too much.

“Not sure,” he finally mutters, “I’m not feeling good right now.”

Kevin frowns and a hand rises to press against the Englishman’s forehead, checking for the fever that doesn’t exist. Alastair notices the strange glint in Kevin’s eyes that comes when he’s putting up a front. He recognises it from times their wives are around and he can’t really go about showing how close ‘friends’ they’ve become. It might not mean anything to Jessica, but Alice would figure it out pretty quickly.

His mind works like its panicking, trying to guess what Kevin could be thinking and covering and what he thinks he needs to hide. Had Graeme been to talk at him, or is he offended by Alastair’s blatant brushing him off? The hand on his forehead slides down and around his jaw, angling him gently to right and Alastair subconsciously licks his lips. Whatever his motive, the man is still affectionate and he shouldn’t be so cold towards him for a stupid reason.

“Maybe we could order up some nice food; a couple bottles of red and spend the evening here?” the captain offers with a little smile.

“Sounds good,” Kevin grins again and before he knows it, Alastair hits the pillows with a grunted chuckle. The South African immediately draws himself closer, sliding one arm between his hip and mattress, whilst the other remains tucked under his jaw. “Sounds perfect.”

When Kevin is lying on the bed beside him; his full lips pouting just the slightest as they watch each other, Alastair can’t help but smile. He reflects on how they’ve changed and grown. At the start every moment between them was hot, fast and sexually charged. Those moments felt stolen and Alastair didn’t miss them. There are still sultry glances and whispered lustful promises that make his blood boil, but the tranquillity of moments like these can be traded for nothing.

Kevin leans closer slowly, visibly trying not to smirk as Alastair’s gaze flick between his mouth and back up to his eyes. He finally closes them when their lips touch, as softly and gingerly as if he were made from crystal. The kiss is chaste, yet Alastair still hums into it. He smiles as Kevin’s thumb rubs tiny circles against the corner of his lips, then strokes across them as he pulls away.

His gaze had never been quite so tender, eyes sparkling in the overhead lights as he seems to regard the whole of him all at once. Alastair finds himself feeling oddly self-conscious, not knowing what’s going on in that head and curious to find out.

For some reason, a memory bubbles forth – one he had long since tried to forget. Freddie had stared at him like this, though his eyes were red from drinking and he was grinning like a fool as Alastair struggled to put him to bed. The Lancastrian had stayed silent until Alastair had looked at him questioningly. Then he had said _I love you_ and the young cricketer’s heart seemed to jump, speed, stop and explode at the same time. As giddy as he was, swept up in everything so _new_ to him back then, Alastair had laughed it off, seeing it as nothing more than exaggeration brought on by the beer. The next morning, Andrew said it again, and that time he believed it.

Alastair blames Graeme completely for bringing that back… though the longer Kevin stares and the longer he continues to lick his lips as if trying to coax out tentative words makes the Englishman doubt if he wouldn’t have thought of that night any other day. Because it feels exactly the same. Already his pulse doubles, breathing shallow and rapid and he tries to stop his lips from curling upwards. Something so stupid; a confirmation they don’t really need, but the more Alastair thinks and waits for it, the more important it becomes to him.

He’s always been a little too afraid to imagine what those three syllables will sound like in Kevin’s voice. Mostly through his disdain of disappointment. What if his mind exaggerated the softness of the South African’s tone, or what if he didn’t kiss him afterwards? He also never imagined because Alastair knows he’d dream up some perfect situation that again, will only inevitably leave him disillusioned.

Nothing will change, he knows. But hearing them – sincerely – will make the risk they’re taking seem worthwhile. And it will quell the idiotic doubts Swann created: that Kevin really doesn’t love him at all.

“You’re so beautiful,” Kevin finally murmurs, softly and _lovingly_ but it’s just not enough.

Alastair closes his eyes, feigning a smile as inside he sags. He collapses around those words he’s heard so many times before. A comment on his physical form… that body he knows Kevin finds attractive. The amount of times they’ve had sex proves it… and that’s all the man still sees him as. _Beautiful_. Scenery is beautiful.

Maybe Graeme is right and Alastair’s been imagining things the entire time. Maybe he sees Kevin’s expressions as affection because he wants to. Maybe he’s something far worse than pathetic. Maybe he’s making a fool of himself and Kevin finds it amusing, and stays for nothing more than gratification.

The Captain sits up sharply, pushing Kevin’s hands from him before hunching over his legs. He stares blindly, thinking and thinking these things he doesn’t want to think. Kevin moves behind him, shuffling around and strokes his hands up and down his arms.

“Babe, what’s wrong?”

Subconsciously, Alastair bites down on his sore thumb again and hisses, jerking himself away from Kevin as he does so. He quickly glances to the man as he stands, seeing a dark and confused face that he wonders is really offended and sardonic past his rose-tinted glasses.

“Ali, Babe, what’s wrong?”

Alastair turns his attention to the wall and clenches his fist. Being called that now feels like some mockery; he wonders what Kevin calls his wife. That wife he goes home to… the wife he’ll never leave. The wife one day they’ll break up for and a wife who will leave him heartbroken. Again.

He bites his lip as he paces away from the bed. Perhaps the pain won’t be so bad if he catches it early. Perhaps it’ll be better if he does it. That way he won’t be caught out, and can’t be embarrassed again.

Kevin gets to his feet and approaches, his face worried with bewilderment and concern. His arms are open and wide, no doubt intending to embrace him, but Alastair just takes another step back and crosses his arms.

“We should end this,” he says suddenly and sternly. Both the tone and the words themselves surprise him. They come a lot easier than he thought they would. Then again, self preservation is a natural instinct that does not consult the brain and its emotions.

“…what?”

“ _This_. Us,” he gestures with a rough jerk of his hand, flippant and derisive. “This _affair_.”

Kevin’s black eyebrows furrow deeply, lips twisting downwards. That first time they’ve called it by name. It’s dismissive and painful, but true. “You can’t—Ali—” he starts quietly, then pauses and rubs his palm against his cheek. “ _Why_?”

Shrugging, Alastair turns back to the wall. This is easier to do when he can’t see that face that only minutes ago he had been so certain would say what it didn’t; that face he’s gotten so used to seeing in the first light of morning. “It’s going nowhere, KP.”

“Does it _have_ to?”

The Captain sighs, almost scoffing. He really must be something special to deserve a protest. But underneath that acrid voice, there’s something that screams at him to stop. That this is all ridiculous because he’s been having affairs for years. He’s been pursuing aimless relationships since he was at school. It’s who he _is_.

But it’s time to finally grow up.

“It’s not enough anymore,” Alastair says. He twists at the waist, looking at Kevin. The man pauses, stands back on his heels with his lips open. Desolation is a new expression on that face and dark eyes show so much that Alastair doesn’t want to read, because it makes him feel sick. Sick for lying… though he’s not.

In the minute of silence that follows, Alastair foolishly thinks that he’s done it. That Kevin’s run out of things, or the will, to fight. He goes to walk to the door, to wordlessly ask the South African to leave when that smooth voice cuts straight through him.

“You never said anything,” it comes harshly as Kevin always covers emotional weakness with bitterness. Like some defence mechanism that chases away a threat before it can injure him further. “If it’s not enough, you _tell_ me, not fucking dump me,”

Alastair hangs his head and takes a deep breath. His resolve slips because as hard as Kevin tries to sound aggressive, his voice wavers uncontrollably. The thought enters his mind that this is exactly what happened to Swann and Anderson. Difference circumstance, but he’s doing the thing he’s tried to convince them was a mistake. He’s walking away without doing that ‘talking’ he thinks is healthy. But they are not Swann and Anderson.

“Tell me what you want, Ali,” Kevin continues, devoid of that former acrimony. “What do you need?”

Biting his lip, Alastair slowly raises his head again. He can’t _say_ because it’s pointless, he’s ridiculous and it won’t achieve anything. Prolong the heartbreak maybe, but for how long? A month? A year? To make it easier for himself he remembers times when their families had come to visit, even _before_ the affair started, he would look across rooms and see how happy Kevin is with his wife and son.

He hears Kevin’s cautious footsteps closer and tenses. The South African’s strong hands curl around his waist, pulling him backwards as lips fasten to the back of his ear. It’s hard not to rest his head back; impossible not to shudder. “I want to be enough, Babe. Tell me what you need.”

Before he can still them, his hands hold tightly to Kevin’s against his stomach. He might as well just give up now, because that’s just said how reluctant he is to do this. And Kevin being Kevin will only chip and chip away until whatever feeble resolve remains simply crumbles away. Even if he doesn’t do it now, it’ll be only a matter of days.

He’s sure Kevin knows this, and gently leans his head back onto the hard shoulder behind it. As he’s so often found, being held like this feels timeless. They got together out of desire and attraction; they are a thing forged of _now_. They’ve never meant to have a future so why does it matter so much to him all of a sudden? He can’t answer that question, and he doesn’t really want to.

“I can’t promise you anything. I can’t give you any more. But I want to. I _want_ to, Ali,” Kevin lips brush against his skin delicately. This is a man who can bite and hiss; make Alastair want to scream and laugh. They fight like dogs but curl up together hours later like dormice. Nothing has ever fulfilled him like the last few years have. Ending it now will be wasting more years they could have. Continuing it is stupid, but the other option seems much worse. At least now. But now is what they have. It’s what they _are_.

“Isn’t that enough?”

He closes his eyes and swallows. Even if he abandons the thoughts of self preservation and maturing, focusing purely on his emotions, no, it’s not enough. Even if he could bring himself to say it, the words would only catch in his throat. Because it’s been enough for so long, and now he lets a _sentiment_ rule him.

Silently chuckling to himself, Alastair thinks that this is some sick cycle they keep on finding themselves in. First, the Captain called them off and Kevin argued with the sentiment of their lust; then Alastair ran to avoid that threat of _love_ only to have Kevin return with that sentiment and promise that he isn’t Freddie. Those times they had come back stronger, fell further and felt better for it… maybe that’s all the stability and security he needs. They’re creatures of habit and Kevin is a being dominated by impulse. That’s something that will never change.

Kevin slides his hands out from under his, only to twine their fingers together tightly. He presses a gentle kiss to his favourite patch of skin and nuzzles into his black hair with all the affection that makes Alastair choke.

Staring up at the ceiling, the Englishman wonders how long Kevin will wait for an answer. Hopefully, if he leaves it long enough, he never will have to answer. Kevin will simply accept that it is and Alastair will grow to ignore that craving within him. He only feels it now because it’s so new. He squeezes Kevin’s fingers and smiles when the man holds him tighter.

It’s enough, he thinks, because it has to be.

“I love you,”

Alastair freezes, eyes wide open. Is his imagination playing tricks on him, or is the warmth of breath on his ear real? Perhaps he made a sound of surprise or shock or question, or maybe once they’re out the words beg for repeating. Because Kevin says them again.

“I love you, Alastair.”

He can feel the curve to Kevin’s lips but also the tenseness in his arms. Alastair knows that too well. When he had said it, as premature and ill-timed as it was, he was petrified that Kevin would laugh, panic or leave. The silence he received instead had hurt at the time and he doesn’t want to inflict that kind of despair upon his lover now.

Slowly, and with a grin that fit to break his cheeks, Alastair turns in Kevin’s embrace and winds his arms around the man’s neck. The South African is as giddy as a child, and wets his lips like he’s going to say it again, or press him for a reply.

Alastair leans up to kiss him, pulling him down, as every silly thought of that afternoon just vanishes like morning dew. “I love you too,” he says between kisses. Inside, he feels amazing and just _too much_. Like there’s too much pressure in him that is trying to find a vent; kissing Kevin is the one thing that makes him feel better. Yet at the same time, he doesn’t feel like anything will ever feel quite so good.

Kevin pulls away sharply, his hands cupping either side of the Captain’s face. His expression is tender, if a little timid. Those dark eyes scour Alastair’s face for something and Alastair offers up everything he has because that’s what love is to him.

“Is this enough, Baby?” Kevin murmurs, never so unsure and afraid. That’s the _real_ Kevin, under the mask of superciliousness and ego. That’s love and nothing anyone could ever say can make Alastair doubt that again.

“It’s enough,” he beams, laughing softly and leaning to take another kiss. “It’s _more_ than enough.”


End file.
